The fusillade of scattered notes and plastic demanded a new home but the idea of purchasing another Comme des Garcons creation, only to have it pillaged in an act of cosmic spite, was anathema. This act of fashion violence would never happen again – I was determined.
With this I went on a scavenger hunt. Beneath a disused Slendertone, several pairs of lurex tights and a mirrored iPhone cover lay an utterly vile PVC floral purse. How it became ingratiated in my tightly-honed temple to the sublime is anyone’s guess (so are those MBTs) but its presence was utterly heart-warming. Its sheer ugliness would act as an insurance policy against theft, loss or damage; and its wipe-clean surface the perfect ruse for spilled Bald Barista lattes (I’m simply not that co-ordinated in the morning).
Inspired by serendipity and the prospect of never having to defile Napa leather again, I decided to road test my new accessory. “Jesus, what the hell is that,” enquired a frank friend as a few of us gathered in a bar unnamed for some Saturday night drinks. “It’s my new wallet; you like?” Silence. “Did you steal that from Martha Stewart,” importuned another. “Ha ha. This is my anti-theft, anti-damage, anti-loss device. It’s so brutal, if I left it here on the bar, no one would touch it for fear of catching the ugly.”
“Go on Miss Social Anthropologist, I dare you,” decreed the group. And with that I put my money where my G&T was and stood back to see what would happen. Within seconds an arm appeared from the crowd holding the offending article. “Here missus! You left your wallet on the bar!” “Thanks,” I said, regretful that my plan had gone awry. “Next time be more careful,” reprimanded the hand. “Your granny will kill you if you lose that thing.” Cue: pointing, laughing, a turgid ‘told-you-so’ chorus. Anti-theft, anti-loss, anti-damage; if only I had anticipated public humiliation.
